


The Simple Life Is Much Overrated!

by DixieDale



Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Garrison's Gorillas
Genre: Intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 04:02:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14845343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: When being just himself hadn't worked out so well for him, Goniff had decided it would be best if he learned to be someone else, maybe several someone else's.  He'd gotten good at it, had been a lot of people, a lot of things in his life.  Never before had he been presented with a challenge like this, though.  Now, he was going to become Eileamh a Dragan, Marcachm Dragan.  He just hoped he'd survive the experience!





	The Simple Life Is Much Overrated!

He'd kept it with his other small treasures, unsure of when, or even if he would approach her with it. That very uncomfortable evening with Neal Hargroves had ended with the two of them finally in a bed together, uninterrupted for once, both of them in fine health, well disposed to tasting the delights they could bring to each other. There were no regrets on either side about that, he knew that for sure, especially after that melodrama with the New York producers trying to split them up. That had failed miserably, thanks, he had to admit, to her sheer stubbornness and determination winning over his idiotic insistence on stepping aside for her to have a career it turns out she bloody well didn't want.

Her contract was finished; other than a few errands for the Clan, a few one-off jaunts on behalf of the war effort, she spent her days and nights here at the Cottage, venturing to the village, the Mansion, sometimes up to London and the surrounds, but mainly here, training with the small dog Max, expanding the kitchen gardens, working on that loom her mother had sent her, writing her music, and, though few knew it, doing a great deal of translation and interpretation of intelligence reports for the underground and resistance groups.

She was his, he accepted that now, though he knew there were many others who didn't, wouldn't, but that was beside the point. HE knew she was his. The thing was, once he gave her the collar, once she finished reacting, and oh, he was really looking forward to seeing her reaction, then what? Would she wear it? Would she be willing to let people know what it meant, accept his claiming of her in front of one and all?

He took it out, now, and looked at it. A narrow half-inch wide piece of dark tanned leather, meant to sit tightly about the throat, worked with beads and crystals, a small latch at the side, joined by a loop of chain, from which dangled a small cluster of feathers and what looked like a claw from some fairly large bird! Not a particularly civilized necklace, not what a lady might wear, but then, she'd never claimed to be a lady. She was Clan, she was the Dragon; this was a fitting ornament for her, he thought, but thinking about what it meant, what her father had called it, he winced a bit at that. 

He'd already been shocked, stunned even when her father had drawn him away for a private chat. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but certainly not what had occurred: a welcoming, matter of fact acceptance 'now that you and she have settled on each other'; a hastily thought denial, just as quickly swallowed down without saying the words, had left him just staring at the dark man in front of him. The presentation of 'a little gift from the family, thought you'd make good use of it', and the small package he'd unwrapped carefully, only to give another look of total incomprehension to her father. Then the explanation, and he felt his world tilt even more.

"A Claiming Collar?" he'd asked, stunned at the idea. "All the women wear such?"

Her father laughed, "Oh, no. Only a very few, only the ones who are so much the warrior, so fierce, that others might doubt they COULD be claimed, could be tamed, might doubt the truth of the matter. This is a declaration of sorts, well, a series of declarations, really. You giving it to her, that's you declaring your rights, that she's yours. Believe me, in doing that, you're also declaring your courage, for it'll take that, considering that daughter of mine," he chuckled, shaking his head at the wide-eyed apprehension on the face of his girl's love.

"Her accepting it, that's her declaration to you that she accepts your claim. Her actually wearing it, though, wearing it publicly, openly, and letting others know she's wearing it, what it means, that is her shouting to the world, "Yes, I'm his, I accept his claim, gladly and proudly!"

Goniff had accepted it, hesitantly, knowing it would be awhile before he put this to the test, if he ever did. Seemed more than a little risky to him, kinda like trying to invade Berlin all on his own! 

"Any special way I'm supposed to give this to 'er?" he asked, figuring they had traditions for so many things, seems this would be one of them.

He was more than a little surprised to hear, "no, that's left up to the one doing the claiming. I've heard of all kinds of approaches." Lupan had grinned, and laughed, "one poor soul actually slipped it around his love's neck while she was sleeping, so when she woke up she was wearing it. I'd not suggest you try that; from what I've heard, that did not go well! Oh, she agreed to wear it, eventually, but he was a long time paying for that presumption, and moved most slowly and cautiously for a bit, I'll tell you!" 

He had almost choked when her father said, "that would make you Eileamh a Dragan, He Who Claims (or some say, Tamed) The Dragon. Well, actually, the traditional term translates something more like 'rider' than 'one who claims', but since she's the Dragon, doing a literal translation would end up with you being called Marcachm Dragan, meaning Dragon Rider which I think is a bit much, don't you think? Or, maybe not?" asking with a sly grin on his face. 

His eyes had gotten even bigger, and he'd turned a rosy red, when Lupan had looked at him out of the corner of his eye, "we could make one similar, you know, when you're ready to give one to HIM. For when he is ready to accept being Curadh, the Warrior, for you to be also Eileamh a Curadh, He Who Claims the Warrior. In his case, I'd for sure use the Eileamh designation, rather than the Marcachm," with a laugh.

Goniff dropped his jaw, then nodded vigorously in agreement, wincing even at the thought! {"Yes, it would be quite enough, more than enough - He Who Claims The Warrior; the other, no, no way could we use that!"} then realizing, all of a sudden, that his mind had skittered around the actual reality Lupan was suggesting. That Lupan had somehow SEEN too much, had seen what didn't exist, well, outside his occasional, wistful thoughts, those endlessly complicated feelings that he tried to avoid thinking about. And his shock grew greater when he realized, this man, his love's father, after giving him the Claiming Collar to use for his daughter, could make THIS suggestion, that he Claim another, not instead of, but along with his daughter, Claim the man who caused him to have such unspoken longings. 

Lupan had taken in his look of shock. "Didn't you meet Neal Hargroves, her uncle-by-bond? He's bonded to my Felane's brother David; they both wear a collar, I sometimes think to remind themselves of what they have, what they almost lost, what they now work very hard to make sure they keep well and alive. It's quite possible HE would welcome a collar of his own; not now, certainly, but eventually."

Goniff just shook his head in wonderment, {"I'll never understand this family, I think; everytime I think I may be coming close, something like this 'appens, and there I am again, standing there shaking my 'ead!"} Still, the understanding grin, the welcoming, if amused, look in the bigger man's eyes, that he could answer with a grin of his own, and a rueful shake of his head.

Then he thought to ask, "is there something I'm supposed to wear?" to receive an appreciative nod at the question.

"Yes, and it's in the package as well, a wrist band, similar in design; but you're not to wear it til she willingly puts on the collar to wear in public; we'd provide another one for later, as evidence for the Curadh," with a grin, and Goniff groaned aloud.

"So much for my 'simple life'," to which Lupan responded with a roar of laughter, "I think, my friend, you'll find the 'simple life' is much overrated! I know I did!"

>p>Goniff thought, later that night, about how Lupan easily had accepted what was - the possible beginnings with Meghada - and what was not, at least not more than the accumulation of his yearnings, of his thoughts. He shook his head, knowing it'd never happen, not the one, perhaps not even the other - still, wanting with all his being, that it would be possible, that somehow the two he loved more than he'd ever loved before, ever thought he COULD love, that they could in truth be his.

When they rejoined the others, after Meghada, Max and her father made their way back to the Cottage, he sat there thinking. When Casino asked him, "hey, what'd the big guy want to talk to ya about? He warn you off the little lady?", Goniff just shook his head in wonderment, and said so seriously, so earnestly that the others roared with laughter.

"No, no, 'e didn't. I'll tell you one thing, that family, I'll never understand em, not if I live to be a 'undred; more than a little strange, 'ow they look at things sometimes, if ya ask me!" When asked for an example, he just turned a nice pink color, and refused to answer, and just returned to his thoughts.

Strangely, he turned that same color when he raised his eyes to say goodnight in response to those same words from Garrison, turned pink and blinked rapidly several times, and had to swallow hard before he could give a cordial, "g'night to you too, Warden."

It took the incident at The Doves with Kevin Richards and his sister and friends to give him the push he needed. Yes, that dance had been pretty much a public announcement of sorts, though not saying all he wanted said; even that kiss after the bombing attack had been pretty obvious.

Now he wanted to see if she'd accept more, let herself be claimed according to her own traditions. Would she accept it? If she accepted it, would she tuck it away somewhere, keeping the acknowledgement between the two of them, or would she actually wear it in public, declaring his claim to anyone who saw it and knew what it was? He didn't know, he just knew he was ready to find out. 

He thought of all kinds of ways, some funny, some dramatic, some straight forward, but in the end, he kept it simple. This, to his mind, was important, not something to play games with. She'd taken that approach when explaining the Five Decanters to him, simple, matter of fact, which seemed to suit the occasion. Now, here in the sitting room, looking over at the elegant crystal display on the sideboard, he smiled slightly, thinking how well that had worked out. She'd been right; he'd have never taken the chance of actually telling her those things, risk offending her with what those decanters let him say now without a word. And they were careful with each other, they were, her seeming to understand more than she should be able to, making sure it stayed right, stayed good throughout, always watching for any hint of it going off somehow. They'd tried them all, now, each decanter, each with their own meaning, and found each had its own special sweetness, its own special allure. Yet, for tonight, with what he planned, it'd be the first decanter, the one letting things take their own course, no plan. He gave a rueful smirk, {"just 'ope I don't end up with that decanter smashed flat across me 'ead! Probably cost more than a bit to replace!"} And replace it he knew they would, once she'd calmed down. 

She wasn't sure what he was up to, but she could tell he was a trifle nervous, keyed-up. She waited patiently, but it appeared he wasn't going to share whatever it was. {"Maybe his choice for tonight is something a bit different, something he's considering that he thinks I might not like so well. Well, I doubt that; so far I've liked everything! Oh, there are a few favorites, of course, and I've one or two things I'd like to try, next time he puts me in command, but there's not been any night that hasn't held some special delight, no morning after when I haven't wakened with a smile on my face, in my heart."}

Dinner had been finished, things cleared away, kitchen tidy; now was the time he usually chose, leaving the next hour or two for walking the garden, doing odds and ends, letting the anticipation build, and that held a sweetness of its own. They made their way into the sitting room, and he walked over to the decanters, after settling her into her big armchair. He stood looking down at them, touching each, tasting each in his memory, though somehow she thought he'd already made up his mind.

{"The first decanter! Yes, that always holds an appeal, letting our minds, our bodies find their own way, without a roadmap, taking time to explore any little sidepaths that might take our fancy!"} She smiled at the fanciful thought, and watched him pour a few drops into the blue glass, the rose glass, and bring them over. He sat his glass on the little side table, and knelt to put the rose glass on the little footstool in front of her, his body shielding it from her view for a moment. When he leaned back, she smiled at him and started to reach forward, and stopped. Her mind couldn't take it in, what was laying there beside the glass. She opened her mouth to say something, but since she couldn't think of what to say, she closed it again. She looked at him, her eyes wide, questioning, {"where did he get this? Who . . .? And he expects me to take this, wear this??!"}

She took a deep breath, sat back in her chair. He was watching her face, solemn, trying not to show his apprehension, waiting to see her decision, watching to see if he needed to dodge. Her eyes searched his eyes, his face, went back to the collar, and then back to his face. She put out just one finger, touched it, ran her finger across the beadwork, touched the chain, the dangling adornment.

Without a word, she picked it up, got up from the chair and left the room, leaving him sitting there on the floor, still waiting. At the entry to kitchen she turned back to look at him, at the tense look on his face, and she lifted one hand to him, motioning him to stay there. He stayed, waited, wondering whether she was coming back, whether she was coming back with a gun, maybe; well, he wouldn't put it past her if she was totally pissed. Oh, she'd not kill him, he was sure of that, but he could see her putting a round through his ear lobe or something like that, just to teach him a lesson, like. He had his head downcast, shaking his head, wry grin on his face thinking of the possibilities, thinking of how he'd explain it to Garrison. Though why he found himself thoroughly aroused at that thought, he'd not have been able to say.

He heard a slight noise and saw the kitchen was in darkness now; it had come on full dark, and they'd not lit the lamps in there yet. "Marcachm Dragan," he heard a soft voice say, "Eileamh a Dragan", and she stood there in the lamplight of the sitting room, wearing the collar, wearing nothing but the collar, except for her medallion at her waist, dark red hair bound high on her head so the collar showed at every glance, no part of it hidden. His mouth went dry. She looked like a barbarian priestess standing there, proud and erect, glorying in herself, who she was, the Dragon, now the Dragon who had been Claimed. 

She walked over to him, looked down at him, and knelt down in front of him, reached out slowly to take the rose glass and drain it, reaching up to pull the blue glass from the table and hand it to him; he drank it without looking at it. Both glasses went back onto the table, and his hands reached out to touch her, trace her lines like he'd never forget them. She arched into his touch, crooning her approval, with a note in her voice like he'd not heard from her before.

This was new, different between them; nothing the decanters had prompted had led to anything like this. Then, he knew; tonight it was real, tonight he truly was Claiming the Dragon, making her his for all time. He gave in to an impulse and opened his mouth, sucked deeply on the side of her neck, under her ear, biting down; she'd bear a mark tomorrow, a large one, one slow to fade, something they'd been careful to avoid, at least any place open to public view.

His clothes were gone now, and he felt her nails on his back, knowing he'd bear her mark tomorrow as well, {"well, if yer gonna go riding dragons, ya gotta expect a few scratches,"} he thought to himself, and realized it was a strange thing to be thinking, surprised in fact that he was capable of thinking anything at all.

He knew now he wanted her to mark him somewhere visible, like he'd done her, not just on his back where it'd be hidden from view, and as if reading his mind, she leaned into him and he felt her teeth close on the flesh of his throat, and he felt the sudden burst of pain and smelled the faint coppery scent of blood.

She purred, then, her voice thick, with a rasp to challenge his own, and her wet tongue licked the blood away, "ye've Claimed the dragon, aye, well, she's Claimed you in return," turning, twisting til they were on the thick rug, and then he was inside her, she was on top, then rolling so he was, then her again, striving all the time. He'd always been vocal with her, had never tried to control it, though he always had with others; now, over his own moans and cries, he heard hers, wild, aching, ending in a drawn out keening of completion, his echoing hers only seconds later, and they convulsed together, collapsed in each others arms, wet and sticky with sweat, traces of blood from his throat and back, and seemingly from her as well, on her breast, though he didn't remember when that had happened, and their combined fluids. When he could breathe easier, he moved back, sat up to look down at her, his Dragon, coiled on the floor before him, alert, watching him, Claimed but never tamed, never conquered. He ran his fingers over the collar, and told her what they both knew, but what he wanted the joy of hearing himself say, "MINE!" and saw her gold-brown eyes glow with more than the reflection of the lamps, dragon-eyes, dragon-light, "YOURS, always!".

When they made their way to the Mansion the next morning, he looked over at her appreciatively. Her hair was again bound high, in a flaming coronet of some complicated braiding, the leather collar darkly bold and strident against her skin; above the collar, under her left ear, a wide oval of darkened skin where he'd marked her. She'd chosen her clothing quite carefully today, blouse of deepest copper, shirtwaisted, with the collar points turned back so the leatherwork would show clearly, unbuttoned to the top of her full breasts. When she woke this morning, she found that he'd also marked her there, with his teeth, at the inside crest of her left breast, and it ached enough to remind her, and she gloried in it, and she wanted to show that mark as well, to show that he'd found her worthy of a second Claiming.

{"Still, even in full daylight, a savage priestess, a warrior, that's what she shows, with every view, every movement."} And he knew she'd prepared this showing for him, to honor his Claim, and for herself, to show her pride in his Claim. As for himself, he touched himself carefully on the side of his throat, {"missed the jugular, but not by so much; think that was deliberate as well, that placement."} He'd looked in the mirror, and there'd be no mistaking that mark for what it was, her teethprints sharp and clear, tiny touches of blood still appearing at odd moments; the sight had made him shudder slightly, and he'd felt a slight tightening below.

On his right wrist he wore a wristband of leather, with beadwork and chains; he'd thought it would feel strange, look out of place, but it didn't; it felt, it looked like it belonged. He knew, she knew, he wouldn't wear it when on a mission, or even up to London; it was too noticeable and might prove a danger; at other times, though, yes, he had every intention of wearing it, proudly. He gave a little grin of satisfaction, {"showing she thinks of me as 'ers? Wouldn't 'ave it any other way!"}

From the voices the guys were in the Common Room; he took a deep breath, grinned at her, and they made their way through the door. The Warden was there, as well, and the Riley's; all eyes went to them as they came through the door, smiles, words of greeting dying away as one by one they took in the difference in how they stood, the changes, the marks.

Everyone was frozen, not knowing what to say, though Casino had it in his mind to make some snarky comment, even as he thought better of it.

Til Sheila Riley moved forward, her eyes wide, but shining with delight, bowing her head low first to her, then to him, putting out her hand to touch with her fingertips the collar, then touching the wristlet, backing away, bowing a full bow this time to the pair of them, saying the formal words of greeting, first in old Celtic, then in English, "Good morrow to you, Dragon; and to you, Marcachm Dragan, Dragon Rider, Eileamh a Dragan, He Who Has Claimed the Dragon!" to the collected and assorted gasps, chuckles, dropped jaws and grins of those others in the room, friends who now had witnessed the Claim and the acceptance of that Claim. Doctor Riley did rather put a damper on the moment when he stepped closer to Goniff, tipped his head to one side and said, "hope you put some antiseptic on that; dragon bites can be dangerous you know!", but then let a delighted grin spread across his broad face. And facing her, ignoring the teeth marks on her breast, other than giving her a raised brow and a light touch to the mark on her neck, "hope you've left room in that cottage for an extra room or two; Claiming Flights have a history of having repercussions, if I remember correctly," to chuckle at her wide eyes and flushed skin, at Goniff's face matching her own. Though her words didn't seem as if she was too worried, "Yes, I've heard that too," with a rich chuckle of her own.

She wore it when they went to The Doves later that evening, and it was remarked on, as was his matching wristband, and she gave the calm unflurried explanation.

"It's a Claiming Collar, don't you know, with the Wristlet bespeaking who's Claimed me; it's a tradition in my Clan; rather like wedding bands in your own culture," with a proud look at Goniff.

Well, that took but a moment to make its way around the room, and by tomorrow this time, would be around the village. Those who needed to know, those who were elsewhere, well, they'd find out in good time, as she never appeared in public without the collar now, nor in private for that matter, unless she was on a mission or such, or having to mix with the fancy. At times it was just a part of who she was; other times, some times, it was WHO she was, the barbarian priestess, the warrior, and they both gloried in those times. As good as all the rest was, that was special, rich and fierce, a rededication of who they were to each other, that she was his, and that he was hers, Dragon and Dragon Rider.


End file.
